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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28118496">Citrus in the Morning</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/schuka/pseuds/schuka'>schuka</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Queen's Gambit (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Chess, Cute Ending, F/M, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Sex, Morning After, the queen’s gambit episode 6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:40:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,129</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28118496</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/schuka/pseuds/schuka</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after Beth and Benny sleep together.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Beth Harmon/Benny Watts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>229</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Citrus in the Morning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sometime in the night, they twisted from each other, intertwined limbs </span>
  <span>and quick-beating hearts in the dark alone and slow by morning. On opposite ends of the bed they curled, blankets stretched taut between their bodies. Beth stirred, pushed toward the center of the bed in a half-asleep desire for closeness, for the warmth she found in her partner’s skin when their backs met. Enveloped in dark sheets pulled to her nose, her breath hitched and shifted, awake now and aware. She didn’t move, tried her hardest not to do so in the fear that he would wake. For all the nights she spent on the air mattress, she had never once imagined what it would be like to share his bed, at least not in a way such as this. Never would she have guessed it to be so calm, so cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A ball of aching joints, she kept her spine hard on his and held her breath to hear his own more clearly, shallow and inconsistent, body shifting ever so slightly as if each exhale pained him. Maybe it did, maybe he didn’t want to let go in case the next inhale wasn’t enough. She let herself breath again, turning carefully so her nose came to the nape of his neck. Golden hair fell in odd shapes around his ears, and she held her hands to her chest to keep from smoothing it. A spattering of small freckles dotted here and there around his narrow shoulders, and when she let her eyes run over his sharp shoulder blades, she found a mole on his back, a mark to divide where his rib cage led to his hips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>White-hot shame spilled over her skin, pulling at her heart. She moved away from him and the comfort his warmth brought, slipped from the bed as easily as she had slipped into it the night before, leaving him with the sheets and quickly grabbing at clothes. Even after what they had done, she wasn’t quite ready to wake up with him, for their eyes to meet while still in bed, covered only in thin sheets. It was a different kind of intimacy altogether, and she left his bedroom unsure if she would ever get the chance to experience it, or at the very least </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t like any guy she’d been with, and she knew it was silly to applaud him for being so, but the manner in which he had treated her last night had far exceeded her expectations. He hadn’t been inconsiderate and stoned out of his mind, or awkward and unsure of himself, he’d been gentle and kind, questioning each move he made not in doubt, but in an assurance that they were both okay with it. Perhaps most wonderful of all, he hadn’t treated her as any more or less than himself. In short, she trusted that he would allow her the privacy of showering under the less-than-private nozzle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was something so odd in being able to see the apartment around her while she showered. Everything out in the open, and briefly she watched his bedroom door before letting go of the tenseness in her shoulders, letting the water rush over her while she scrubbed his shampoo into her hair, lathered herself in his own soap and took all the time in the world to enjoy how strongly it smelled of spice and citrus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time she had gotten dried and dressed in the pair of pink pajamas snatched from his floor, he had woken and could be heard grumbling in all the glory of a tired morning. He knocked on his door and only opened it when she told him it was safe to come out. For a moment all they did was look at each other, his sleepy eyes squinting in the lamplight as if staring right through her. She wondered, then, if their night had affected him in any way. It didn’t seem like he shared the hopeful curiosity she held, or at least not to the same level of intensity, and it brought about a dull sting to think that she might’ve been just the night for him, just another woman in the night. That she had been nothing more than an afterthought, a way for him to feel better after losing to her in the simultaneous and countless times after, because if he couldn’t beat her at chess then at least he could fuck her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shuffled toward the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, “Coffee?” Before she could answer, he had pulled two paper cups from their stack. She sat at his table, ignoring the chessboard on top to watch him and the way he moved about the open kitchen, finding herself caught in the way his hands grabbed at the pot and pulled cream from the fridge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though he had only been awake for ten minutes at most, he was already decked out in jewelry, a bracelet and ring visible when he poured the coffee, several necklaces swinging when he turned and handed a cup to her. If she had the courage to speak in that moment, she might have asked why. Asked if he wore it all because he thought it looked cool or if there was more to it. Up until then, she had accepted his eccentric style as integral to him as his skill in chess, but now she couldn’t help but want more, to want to know everything about him, every little thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she didn’t say a word about it. He sat in the opposite chair and sipped at his coffee, seemingly about as visibly eager to speak as she was. It felt as if the morning might pass them by in silence until he finally broke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t drunk.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had to take a moment to hide her face with her cup, blanking at the way his voice sounded so early in the day. “I know,” she replied, not meeting his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He set his cup down and messed with the row of black pawns on the table. “You knew?” Unable to decide if it was disappointment or relief that laced his words, she set her cup beside the chessboard and pushed forward in the chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You told me, before…before we actually did anything.” English was foreign on her tongue then, and she picked up her cup again, held it to her chin. “And I wouldn’t have done anything if you were.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time around, he let out a small </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and his voice held a shock she didn’t want to think too hard about. She couldn’t stop the urge to reassure him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can barely get through a single beer without wanting to throw up, and you don’t keep alcohol in the apartment. I’m pretty sure it’s genetically impossible for you to get drunk.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not impossible,” he turned the knights sideways and glanced over the board, hair falling near his eyes. She held the cup tight and curled her bare toes, staring hard at her side of the board. “How about some speed chess?” She wanted to say no. Wanted to spend the morning free of chess for the first time in maybe her entire life, wanted to get rid of the table that separated them and crawl back to the warmth he carried with him. But he didn’t share those desires, she assumed, and so she again nudged her coffee to the end of the table and folded her hands under her chin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do I get if I win?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile pulled on his lips, as if he were actively fighting it and she didn’t understand why. “Who says you’ll win?” He shifted, and asked softly, “What do you want if you win?” She could barely hear, but when the words did reach her ears they set her heart cartwheeling. The table seemed to stretch for miles. Move the table, that’s what she wanted, to move the table. Saying nothing, she fixed her white pieces and jumped right in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He won. Though a bruise to the ego, she knew it had been her fault in more ways than one. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. When he asked for another game she said, “No, no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” It wasn’t spoken out of annoyance or anger, not a challenge—but a genuine wonder. She stood and pushed in her chair, walking past him to throw her cup away and avoid the question. But his eyes followed her, she felt them on the back of her neck and there was the warmth she’d been craving all morning, just not in the way she’d expected. Staring at the counter, she let the cup fall blindly and heard it smack the bottom of the bin. A chair slid over the hard floor, and she knew he had stood, held her breath and waited for him to leave the room so she could turn around. Instead, his shadow played on the counter until they were shoulder to shoulder and she was sure she’d stopped breathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Citrus clung to him, heavy and spiced. And he stood there, right beside her and waited. Why didn’t he move? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me.” Because she was in his way. Cringing, she moved and let him reach the trash bin. She couldn’t take much longer with this silence, it felt almost as if he were ignoring her, pretending the night before had never happened, and the small part of her that found his distance a relief was drowned by the feeling of...being cheated. Before he could move, she decided that him simply telling her he hadn’t been drunk wasn’t enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” Maybe she should’ve made it enough. Who said thank you the morning after?
 </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Last night.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaned his side on the counter, moved his ring back and forth on his finger and sounding so nonchalant when he asked, “Which part?” If he wanted her to say it, he was in bad luck. She mirrored the way his body slumped, barely a foot of space separating them, and stared at him until he caved, returned the look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know which part.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He propped an elbow on the counter and let his other arm swing near hers. Maybe if she were more awake, if the coffee had kicked in, she wouldn’t have done it. But her eyes still struggled to stay open and the quickness of her heartbeat wasn’t from caffeine. She grabbed his swinging hand. If her action surprised him, he didn’t let it show, instead simply lacing their fingers as if they did this all the time, as if before and after a game they didn’t shake hands, but held them. Careful, as he did everything with her, he pressed their palms together and the cold ridges of his ring blocked her fingers from resting all the way between his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You used my soap.” he murmured, moving closer. She couldn’t say anything, not even to defend herself. “Sorry, I—it’s alright.” he finished, clearing his throat and looking down. Again, his hair fell near his eye. This time, she didn’t stop herself from pushing it behind his ear while she tried to force words from her mouth—the right words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I kiss you?” she asked, thoroughly surprising both of them. It surely hadn’t been what she’d expected herself to say, but when he gave her a nod, she knew it was what she wanted. 
</span></p><p>
  <span>Though she was the one to push up on her toes and bring them nose to nose, she hesitated, wanting to hold the moment before if only for a few seconds. He bumped their noses, fingers tightening around hers, and in her head she told him to wait, because she knew that after they kissed nothing would be the same and whether that be for better or worse she wasn’t ready to find out. The seconds passed and finally, reluctantly, she let the moment go, leaned against his chest and gripped his necklaces with the hand he wasn’t holding as if they were there only for her. She didn’t remember how it had felt to kiss him, but when they pulled apart and he knocked their foreheads together she knew it must’ve been lovely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Squeezing his hand, she looked down at their intertwined fingers, ran her thumb along the edge of his ring, perfectly okay with the silence. He brought their hands to his lips, brushed softly over her knuckles before holding them to his chest. It had been for the better. Eyes closed, she rested her cheek near their hands and let his necklaces press hard on her jaw, the sharp sweetness of citrus soap steadying her in a spinning world. </span>
</p>
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